


Putting the Pieces Together

by wendymr



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after the worst day of John's life, someone he doesn't want to speak to needs him to listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John.”

John Watson’s only reaction is to stiffen for a split second, then he carries on walking along Baker Street, away from the flat he doesn’t live in any more, as if he’s never heard Lestrade call his name.

“ _John_.”

He keeps walking.

The sound of running footsteps pound on the pavement behind him. John’s lips purse and he stares rigidly ahead, walking at marching pace.

“John. Please. Talk to me.” Lestrade, slightly out of breath, has drawn alongside him. “ _Please_.”

He doesn’t look at the detective inspector. “What do I have to do to make you understand? _I don’t want anything to do with you_.”

“You think I don’t know that?” There’s strain in Lestrade’s voice that he’s never heard before. “Look, five minutes. That’s all I want. If you still don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave you alone. No more calls or texts ever, I swear.”

He could still walk away – but something snaps in him. “Go on, then. Tell me why you betrayed him, after all he did for you. Try to justify it to me.”

He’s still not looking at Lestrade, though out of the corner of his eye he can’t help noticing the slump of the man’s shoulders.

“I’m not gonna justify it. How can I? It was a shitty thing to do. I had no choice – I was ordered to do it, and it was either me or someone else, and someone else wouldn’t have been doing their damndest to find evidence that he wasn’t lying.”

John shoves his hands in his pockets. “So you could’ve refused.”

Lestrade snorts. “I’m a copper, John. You know how that works. It’s not that different from the army. You refuse a direct order, you know what happens. Not that I didn’t consider it anyway.”

That makes him stop dead, right there in the street. Because Lestrade’s right: that is how it works. “You’d have lost your job.”

“Yeah.” Again, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lestrade stop alongside him and shrug. “And sometimes it’s worth it, when it’s a choice between walking out or following an order that sickens you. That you _know_ is wrong. I didn’t go along with it to keep my job, John. I did it because I thought, out of everyone in Scotland Yard who could’ve been given that assignment, I was the only copper who’d give him a fair hearing. I’d have worked with him to prove he wasn’t the fraud he was being accused of.”

And that’s when John remembers, and he instantly turns to face Lestrade. “You phoned to tell me you were coming. You _warned_ us.”

Lestrade risked his career to make that call. It’s obvious now. “And I told Sherlock,” John adds, “and he just waited for you. He could’ve run then.”

Lestrade glances down at the pavement, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. “Thought he would, actually.”

And that’s why he made the call. It all makes sense now. God. He really did risk his job. And John’s misjudged him all the way. He should have known better – should have known Greg Lestrade had more faith in Sherlock than that, and wouldn’t have turned on him.

“Sherlock understood you didn’t have a choice,” John says slowly. “That’s why he waited until you’d arrested him before he escaped. He was protecting you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Lestrade’s mouth turns down at the corners.

John exhales slowly. “God, I’m sorry. I got it completely wrong, and I’ve been refusing even to speak to you since...” Since Lestrade’s first call, less than an hour after Sherlock jumped. That’s two weeks ago now, and in that time he’s probably had about a dozen calls and more than twenty texts from Lestrade, on top of Lestrade’s attempt to talk to him at the funeral.

Even in spite of the message Lestrade left him a couple of days after Sherlock... fell... saying that he’d persuaded the Chief Super to drop the assault charge against John. And, now that he’s letting go of his anger, he acknowledges that that can’t have been easy.

“Thanks.” Lestrade shuffles a bit. “Though, actually, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I mean, yeah, it’s nice to know you don’t believe I turned on a bloke I’ve known and...” He exhales heavily. “All right, liked – cared about – for seven years. But it’s not just that. There’s...” He shakes his head. “Something about all this just doesn’t feel right to me, and you’re the only one I trust to talk to about it.”

John frowns. “What d’you mean? Moriarty did all this, the bastard. He put all those lies out there, destroyed Sherlock’s reputation-”

“I know that.” Lestrade cuts John off with a wave of his hand. “That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s... Look, I _know_ Sherlock. Knew him. You’re not the only one who was close to him. I’ve watched him and studied his methods for seven years, and he just wouldn’t... It’s just not like him.”

John has to look away. In his mind, all he can see is Sherlock plummeting from the top of Barts’ all over again. “Look, do you mind... I can’t...”

“John.” Lestrade’s hand lands on his arm, reassuring, restraining. “I know this is difficult, but you’ve got to see what I’m saying. However bad things got, Sherlock wouldn’t commit suicide. I just don’t believe he would ever do that. There’s got to be more to it. And don’t you think it’s suspicious that all the reports on his death – the postmortem, the police report, everything – is all confidential? I haven’t been able to see any of that stuff.”

John swallows the lump in his throat. “Look, Greg, I don’t want to believe he’s dead either. You think I haven’t imagined every possible scenario in which he’s alive and this is all some massive conspiracy – or a joke? But I saw him jump. I saw him on the ground. And I spoke to him. He phoned me, did you know that? He called it a suicide note. He said he had no choice, and he told me it was all true. All the allegations, all the lies – he said it was true, that he was a fraud. And I...” He swallows again, and continues, barely managing to force the words out. “I didn’t believe a word of it. Still don’t. Never will.”

“Shit.” The word’s uttered on a long exhale. “Look, we can’t talk here.” Lestrade gestures back up the street, towards 221. “Can we go up to the flat?”

John shudders. “No. I can’t... I can’t go back there. I’m not living there at the moment.”

Lestrade glances away. “Yeah, I... Mrs Hudson mentioned it. I called around looking for you last week. She didn’t say where you were,” he adds quickly. “Just that you’d gone to stay somewhere else temporarily.” He pulls a face. “Thought, since you were here, that you’d moved back in.”

John gives a quick, vicious shake of his head. “I was just seeing Mrs Hudson home. We’d been to the cemetery.”

“Right.” Greg nods. “How about-?” He gestures to the pub on the corner, but then immediately frowns. “Too public. Never know who’s listening. Look, would you come to mine? It’s not far.”

John hesitates. This isn’t going to get him anywhere, and he really can do without spending another couple of hours talking and thinking about Sherlock non-stop. But then what else does he have to do? And what’ll happen if he just goes back to his lodgings anyway? He’ll sit in his room and stare at a blank page on his blog... and think about Sherlock. And drink far more than is good for him.

“Yeah, all right.” He swallows. “Why not?”

Greg gives him a crooked smile. “I’m parked just round the corner.”

 

***

Greg hates working with grieving relatives – which is, essentially, what John is right now. It’s not that he doesn’t feel for them. Of course he does. But they make terrible witnesses, and it’s often impossible to get them to focus on practicalities as opposed to emotions as he leads the investigation into their relative’s death.

Christ, he sounds as bad as Sherlock there – but it’s true.

In the car, John’s slumped in his seat as if he’d prefer to be anywhere else. There’s no sign of the energetic, friendly doctor with the dry wit who’s been Sherlock’s conscience for the last couple of years, and whom Greg’s come to think of as a friend. It might have been easier – and kinder – to leave John out of this entirely. Though... no. He’s not Sherlock, but still: give him something to focus on, a problem to solve, and it can only help him.

That’s one reason why he’s persevered with this, after all, in spite of John making it obnoxiously obvious that he considered Greg on a par with vermin – though he makes allowances for the fact that John’s near-demented with grief. Understandable.

John stirs, glances around at Greg and grimaces. “Sorry. Sorry. I think I’ve forgotten how to be civilised. That’s what I get for living with Sherlock Holmes for two years.” Before Greg can comment, he adds, “Should’ve asked. You didn’t get any flak for warning Sherlock, did you? Or-” His eyes widen abruptly. “-for being associated with him at all?”

He’d like to lie; John would buy it, though Sherlock never would have. But all it’d take would be for John to run into someone else from the Yard and he’d find out truth. “There was an internal investigation,” he concedes.

“Shit.”

“Wasn’t too bad. No, I mean that,” he adds as John gives him a disbelieving look. “Really, it wasn’t. Surprised me. I was fully expecting demotion, given the hysteria around the Yard about the fact that a supposed fraud had been in and out of our cases. Bet they’d have sung a different tune when you two were making all the headlines for solving cases. Anyway,” he adds, “it just amounted to a letter in my file. I deserved it, too-”

“That’s ridiculous,” John objects, but Greg waves his objection away.

“No, really. I should’ve done something about formalising Sherlock’s role years ago – well, once he was off the coke and looking respectable.” He emits a rueful snort. “Could’ve just asked bloody Mycroft. Probably would’ve taken him one phone call and Sherlock could’ve been an official consultant. Anyway, yeah, it’s all over and done with now. Just that letter, nothing else.”

“Probably Mycroft feeling guilty,” John comments, more cynical than he’s already heard the man. “He tried to give me Sherlock’s money – claimed Sherlock left me everything in his will. Told him to give it to a charity for victims of press intrusion.”

That’s something that never occurred to him – but John’s probably hit the nail on the head. Mycroft must have pulled strings to minimise the damage to his career. But why on this and not on so much else? It really is all adding up to conclusions other than the one he’s supposed to accept.

He pulls into his designated parking space and cuts the engine. “Mycroft. It always comes back to Mycroft, doesn’t it?”

John gives him a savage look from too-tired eyes. “Sometimes I believe Mycroft’s more to blame for Sherlock’s death than Moriarty.”

Greg’s eyebrows shoot up. What’s all that about, then?

But it’ll keep. “Come on up.” He gestures to the converted Victorian terrace where he has a first-floor flat, then leads the way around to the side door. From there, it’s up the stairs and inside, where they can talk.

But first... god, John looks like shit. Shadows under his eyes, two-day-old stubble on his chin, and clothes that look like he’s slept in them. Assuming he’s slept at all. Not that Greg didn’t notice all that out on the street, but here, indoors, it looks far worse.

“Coffee?” he offers, before abruptly changing his mind. “No, wait, something stronger. I’ve got a decent single malt – that do?”

“Yeah, thanks.” John digs his hands deep into the pockets of that god-awful green jacket he’s wearing today, and stands awkwardly in the middle of Greg’s living room.

“Make yourself at home.” Greg waves to his sofa – it’s even mostly free of junk and paperwork today. “And take your coat off. Something tells me we’ll be here for a while.”

A few minutes later, John – finally without his jacket – accepts the glass of Glenfiddich Greg hands him. He takes a quick gulp, but then sits cupping it in two hands, rather than knocking the whole measure back as Greg half-thought he might.

“So what’s this theory of yours, then?”

Greg drops onto the sofa next to John. “In a minute. Tell me about Mycroft first. Why d’you blame him?”

He listens with growing incredulity as John describes Kitty Riley’s first newspaper story with all those facts about Sherlock that nobody else knew, and then his conversation with Mycroft where Sherlock’s brother didn’t deny revealing all in return for what turned out to be completely useless information from Moriarty.

“Sorry, John, but that’s just bollocks.” He takes a sip of whisky before turning to frown at the doctor. “Come on – this is Mycroft Holmes we’re talking about. You seriously think anyone – even Moriarty – could get one over on him?”

John’s hands curl into fists around the glass and, for a second, Greg thinks he’s going to drop it. But instead he leans forward and sets it down on the coffee-table. “No, I don’t. You’re right: Mycroft never does anything he doesn’t intend to. He wasn’t tricked. He meant to shop Sherlock. He deliberately used him as a bargaining tool. I just haven’t figured out why yet – it’s obviously not what he let me believe it was.” John rubs at his right leg, wincing as if in pain. “Sometimes I wonder if Mycroft intended Sherlock’s reputation to be destroyed.”

“But why, though?” Greg prompts.

“That’s where I get stuck.” John’s jaw clenches, and he closes his eyes briefly. “Sherlock’d have it all worked out long ago, of course.” He swallows. “He probably even knew as soon as he read the story. God, what am I saying? It’s Sherlock. Of course he knew it was Mycroft. Stupid, stupid sod! Why couldn’t he have told me? Why couldn’t he... there _had_ to have been another way out! We could’ve-”

John breaks off, clearly struggling with his emotions. Silently, Greg tops up his glass and hands it to him. John drinks, then takes a deep breath. “So. You have a theory about his suicide.”

“Yeah.” Greg pauses and holds John’s gaze. “Tell me first, though. You knew him probably better than anyone-”

“I thought I did.” John’s voice is harsh, angry. “I never thought he’d do this to m- Do this.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Greg continues, ignoring the implications of John’s slip. “Do you really think he would’ve committed suicide? Come on, man, you’re a doctor,” he adds. “Just like I’m a copper. We’ve both seen our share of suicides, and we know the psychology. Sherlock topping himself? Really?”

John stares down at the amber liquid in his glass. “I’d have agreed with you, except for the tiny fact that _I saw him do it_. He threw himself off that building right in front of me, Greg. Explain that away if you can.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.” Restless suddenly – this kind of conversation’s a lot more difficult when the witness is a _friend_ – Greg stands and walks across the room to lean against his bookcase. “That phone call – can you tell me about it? Or would it be too much?”

John tenses; Greg waits. And then he nods. “Okay. Just... give me a minute, okay?” He takes a deep breath, chews his lower lip, and then straightens his shoulders and begins. Arriving in the taxi, his phone ringing, Sherlock telling him to walk back – “I thought that was a bit odd, and I still don’t know why he made me... I mean, it’s not as if I couldn’t have seen him from where I was.” Then the apology, and the confession of guilt. Calling himself a fake, emotion thick in his voice, and asking John to tell the world that he created Moriarty. Claiming to have researched John to impress him.

John breaks off then, his shoulders shaking. Moments later, he’s got his emotions under iron control again. “That’s all rubbish. I know it is. I told him I knew it. I mean, what? What was he thinking? That I’d really believe he lied to me?”

No, Greg thinks, but Sherlock went to a lot of effort to try to convince John he’d lied. Why?

“He’s... he _was_ such a dick,” John continues, bitterness and anger taking over. “He didn’t have to do that. He knew he was going to kill himself. He must have known what that would do to me. Why did he have to lie to me as well?”

Not to mention making John watch – but was that the point? To have a witness no-one would doubt? If Sherlock’s best friend is convinced that Sherlock is dead – can actually describe Sherlock dying in front of him – isn’t that proof the world can accept?

“Can you go on?” he asks, and John does; the rest of the conversation, Sherlock’s farewell, John realising what he was going to do.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this.” He can’t avoid it, even if it is making him feel sick inside. “You saw him fall? You actually saw him hit the ground?”

John doesn’t answer immediately. After a few moments, he looks across at Greg and it’s the emotionless, disciplined face of a soldier looking back at him. When John speaks, it’s with the voice of a private reporting to his corporal as he describes the scene, the elements blocking his view, his attempt to run to Sherlock blocked by being knocked over by a cyclist. Then, by the time he got to Sherlock’s body, it was already surrounded by Barts’ staff and they wouldn’t even let him feel for Sherlock’s pulse.

“So,” Greg begins, and excitement’s bubbling in his stomach, “you can’t be a hundred per cent certain that it was Sherlock on the ground? Or that if it was him, he was actually dead?”

“No-one could have survived that fall.” John’s tone is absolute, allowing for no argument.

“Humour me.”

John surges to his feet and starts to pace. “I didn’t actually see him hit the ground. My view was blocked. I saw him fall and I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground. As I ran around, I saw a body lying on the ground. Then after I was knocked over and I finally got to Sherlock, I was dazed and my vision was blurred. And bloody interfering _strangers_ kept trying to drag me away from him and stop me touching him.”

“You’re what would be called an unreliable witness in a courtroom,” Greg points out, rough sympathy in his voice. “You can’t be completely certain you saw Sherlock dead at all.”

Abruptly, John looks straight at him. “You don’t think I did.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know whether it was Sherlock lying on the ground or someone else, but I don’t think Sherlock’s dead at all. I didn’t before I spoke to you, and I’m even more certain of it now.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock might not be dead?

No. It’s too tempting to believe it, but there was a death certificate! A funeral. A bloody gravestone! And Mycroft, too. Wouldn’t he know if Sherlock was...

Oh. Shit. _Bloody_ fucking Mycroft. He’s in on it. Of course he sodding well is.

But how? How could anyone survive that jump? Even with Mycroft’s fingers just about everywhere, he still can’t achieve the impossible. It’s not just John who saw Sherlock on the ground, blood everywhere, is it? All those staff, the doctors and nurses and paramedics – they couldn’t have been fooled as well. And Mycroft can’t possibly be paying them to lie about what they saw – there’s no way that could have stayed out of the papers. Someone would have talked.

“No,” he says, fists clenching and unclenching. “I want to believe it, but how can I? I just can’t see how he could’ve done it.”

“Been over and over that myself the last week or so,” Greg says. “That’s where I got stuck every time too. Look, everything points to it being suspicious, besides the fact that Sherlock just wouldn’t do something like that. No-one saw the body other than the duty pathologist and whoever identified him – and even the name of the person identifying him isn’t recorded. Even the investigating officer didn’t see the body. And, like I said, all the reports are sealed.”

“Mycroft,” John says. “He wouldn’t want the gutter press getting hold of them.”

“But he let the gutter press smear Sherlock’s reputation in the first place.” Greg shrugs. “See what I mean? Look, I’ve been a copper for twenty-five years. I know when something’s not right, and my gut’s telling me this is a complete sham.”

And if it is, then that means Sherlock _deliberately_ made him think he was seeing his best friend kill himself. Made him stand there and _watch_ ; the most reliable witness possible, Sherlock’s own best friend.

Was any of it real? Oh, not the bollocks about Sherlock being a fake, but the emotion in his voice? The way his voice almost cracked when he said goodbye?

“Bastard,” he mutters. Greg frowns at him. “Sherlock,” he clarifies. “Either way. Either he made me watch him die, or he made me think I’d watched him die. Does any normal person do that to their best mate?”

Greg pulls a face. “Since when did we ever expect Sherlock to be normal?”

John’s barely hearing. “All that crap about him being a fraud. Just a magic trick.”

“A... what?” Suddenly, Greg’s straightened and his brows have drawn together. “What did he say was a magic trick?”

John has to think, to remember. Sometimes, it’s as if that entire phone call is etched on his brain, yet at other times he can barely focus enough to recall a single sentence. “He didn’t say,” he answers at last. “He said... It’s just a magic trick.”

Greg lunges forward and catches John’s arm. “What if he was giving you a hint? Telling you that _his suicide_ was going to be a magic trick?”

For a moment, John’s heart starts to race. But then he calms it, forcibly regulating his breathing. “Wishful thinking.”

“But what if?” Greg persists.

John glances around, spots the whisky bottle and, picking it up, gives Greg a questioning look. He gets an _of course_ nod in return. He refills his glass and has to take a gulp before replying. “He’d have needed time to plan it. We were together right from the time you came to arrest him – well, before then. We were _handcuffed_ together. There’s no way he could have...” And then he remembers.

“Two opportunities. I left him twice. He said he had something to do on his own. That’s when I went to see Mycroft. Then he texted me a couple of hours later telling me to come to Barts’ morgue. Never told me what he was doing there. And then I got a phone call. Mrs Hudson had been shot, they told me. And Sherlock refused to come with me. I _knew_ that didn’t feel right – he practically killed a bloke for hurting her a few months ago. Got back to Baker Street and she was fine.” The breath he releases is almost a cry. “The _bastard_. He set me up! He got me out of the way to plan whatever it was he needed to do to fake his death, and then he got me out of the way again to meet _fucking_ Moriarty on the roof.”

“Barts’ morgue.” Greg stares at him. “That’s where the post-mortem took place. That’s-”

John’s jaw slackens. “Where Molly Hooper works. And Molly would do anything for Sherlock, no matter how badly he treated her.”

“Including helping him to survive a suicide.” Greg rakes a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Provide a fake body – and Sherlock had plenty of time to do any cosmetic work he needed – take care of identification, sign the death certificate, help the real Sherlock hide until he could get away. Molly Hooper.” There’s a grim note to his voice, which gives John a lot of satisfaction.

“So, we’re going to question her, right?”

Greg seems about to reach for his car keys, thrown on the coffee-table earlier – but then he stops. “Wait. If we prove he’s alive, what good does that do us?”

“What?” John stares. “He’ll be _alive_ , won’t he?”

“Hang on. There’s one thing we still haven’t figured out in all this.”

John realises it in that same moment. Stupid, stupid. “Why he did it. God, you’re right. Sherlock might be ignorant sometimes, and a thoughtless shit a lot of the time, but he’s not an _idiot_. If he did this, there’s a good reason for it.”

  
“And if we blunder in and expose him as alive, we could be putting him at risk.”

John drums his fingers against his thigh. “Sherlock never showed fear – well, other than when he was drugged when we were in Devon. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He always knew it was possible he’d get killed on a case and he treated it like an occupational hazard. Last time Moriarty tried to kill us, he was so calm, Greg, you should’ve seen him. He was going to shoot that Semtex, bring the entire pool down on all of us – because if Moriarty was going to kill us, Sherlock intended to make damn sure Moriarty died with us. There’s no way Moriarty could have made him claim to be a fake on the phone to me, or jump off that building. Even at gunpoint, Sherlock would never have done it.”

“Right. But what if-”

“No!” John interrupts. “I’m stupid! I’m such a stupid bloody idiot! Why didn’t I see it before? It wasn’t Sherlock who was being threatened! Sherlock wouldn’t care about that. Moriarty – he had a whole bloody empire! He told Sherlock that unless he did as he was told then people he cared about would be killed.”

“Exactly.” Greg nods. “You. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft?”

“Maybe. You, Molly?”

Greg pulls a face. “Nah, not me. Not that it matters. Point is, Sherlock was protecting his friends.”

“But why try to convince me the fraud stuff was true?”

“Maybe he thought you’d find his death easier to take if you believed he’d lied to you?” John gives Greg an _are you kidding_?glare. “No. Course not. He’d know you’d never believe it. But what if he needed to have Moriarty’s people think he wanted you to believe it? That you _do_ believe it?”

John’s stomach lurches. All those thoughts he’s been having lately, those crazy ideas about finding Kitty Riley and making her retract her lies, or tracking down the fake Rich Brook to prove he doesn’t exist – or going to Mycroft and demanding that he tell the world the truth. What if he’d done that and it put people in danger? If not Sherlock – assuming Moriarty’s people believe he’s dead – then Mrs Hudson and others Sherlock’s known to be friendly with?

And _that’s_ why Mycroft is letting the fraud crap stand. Maybe, even, it’s why he gave Moriarty the information in the first place – was he really playing that long a game? Was Sherlock preparing for this all that time?

“So we can’t expose the lies,” he says slowly, fingers tapping again.

Greg’s mouth twitches in a mischievous smile. “Some of them might just happen to be exposed anyway. The Yard’s re-examining all the cases Sherlock consulted on,” he explains. “So far, from what I’ve heard, every single one’s solid. There’s not a shred of evidence that Sherlock faked anything. They won’t give up yet – it’s only been a couple of weeks – but give it a month or so and the investigation’ll be quietly shelved. And that’ll leak. Scotland Yard’s like a sieve sometimes. Can’t understand it myself.”

John stifles a grin. He can understand it well enough. “You’re a good man, Greg.”

Greg just shrugs. He’s so different from Sherlock, John can’t help but think: Sherlock, on being told that, would preen, or just accept it as his due. Modesty never was... no, _isn’t_ his strong point.

Isn’t.

A wide, joyful smile takes over John’s face. “Sherlock’s alive!” Impulse makes him rush at Greg and hug him wildly.

Laughing, Greg hugs him back, until they separate a few moments later, both looking a bit sheepish. “Coffee?” Greg mutters, and disappears.

 

***

Over coffee, John suddenly says, “What can I do? We can’t prove he’s alive, or that Moriarty really existed, but I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

Greg nods. “Course not.”

“So the only thing that’s left is what we suppose Sherlock’s doing – taking down Moriarty’s empire.” John drums his fingers on the table. “Not that I really know where to start, but I’m not gonna let that stop me. Not if it’ll help him come home sooner.”

“I don’t imagine you would.” Greg shakes his head. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“That you’ve got me? Copper, inside track in Scotland Yard? I know I’m not a consulting detective, but I’m reliably informed that I’m the best of a bad lot – so fancy working with me on the side?”

“You sure?” Does John really need to ask? “I just meant – well, you’ve already been investigated over Sherlock once. I wouldn’t want you to take any more risks.”

He shrugs. “Life’s full of risks. Some are just worth taking, that’s all.”

John extends his hand. “I’d like that very much.” They shake, grins spilling over, and Greg’s happier than he can say that he persevered in making John talk to him today. The grief in the younger man’s eyes has faded, and he’s looking excited again, as if he has something to look forward to. “Lestrade and Watson,” John adds. “Might not have quite the same ring as Holmes and Watson, but it’s good enough for me.”

“Me too.” And definitely a working arrangement he prefers to his current professional ones. It’ll be a while yet before he’s able to forgive Sally for her willingness to believe all that crap, and for being so smug about thinking she was right – and whether he’ll ever forgive Anderson for going to the DCI behind his back is another question entirely.

Later, over takeaway, Greg voices a thought that’s been in his mind for an hour or so. “Heard that bedsit you’re camping out in isn’t up to much. You know, I’ve got a spare room here if you need somewhere for a few weeks.”

John’s eyes widen more than Greg believed was medically possible. “That’s... unexpected. And kind – very kind. But you know what? I think I’m going to move back to the flat.”

“Baker Street?”

John nods.

Greg smiles. “About time. Got a car that might come in handy if you want help moving your stuff tonight...”

 

***

_Six Months Later_

“I understand that this won’t be a surprise to you, John.”

John’s just let himself back into the flat after an evening down the pub celebrating with Greg after one more piece – possibly even the final piece, though they’re not sure yet – of Moriarty’s collection of minions was captured and arrested this afternoon thanks to the crack team of Watson and Lestrade.

He stops dead, blinks, then stares. There’s someone in Sherlock’s armchair. All he can see, above the top of the chair, is dark curly hair, but he doesn’t need to see the man. The voice is enough.

“Sherlock.” Amazingly, his voice is even. Sherlock wouldn’t even be able to detect a hint of his state of mind. The heartstopping relief that he and Greg were right after all – and there’ve been moments when he doubted it; sudden anger that Sherlock could just _turn up_ like this and be so casual, as if he’s been gone mere hours and there isn’t a grave in a cemetery five miles away with his name on it; joy that at last he’s back and it can be Sherlock and John again, instead of this constant feeling that half of him is missing; and blinding fury all over again that Sherlock could do this to him, fake his death and _make John watch_ as he jumped.

“So, what will it be?” Sherlock asks, his tone studiously casual, as he stands. “Are you going to knock out half my teeth? Or might I hope for a warmer welcome?”

If John had only been listening to Sherlock’s voice, he might have missed it. But he wasn’t the assistant to a consulting detective, and then to a detective inspector, for more than two years for nothing.

Sherlock’s eyes give him away completely. Despite the almost-smug comment as John entered the flat, his friend’s entirely unsure of his reception.

“You’re a complete git, you know that? You’re also incredibly stupid.” He takes the three steps that separates them and, before Sherlock has a chance to say a word, wraps his arms around the man whose death he cried over mere months earlier.

Sherlock stands stiffly, awkwardly in his embrace for a long moment, enough for John to decide that this is a huge mistake and start to pull away; but then Sherlock’s arms fasten around him like restraints, locking them together, and his not-dead flatmate buries his face in John’s hair. John continues to hold him, and Sherlock shudders.

“Six months and eighteen days,” Sherlock murmurs into his hair, emotion thick in his voice just as it was on the phone that nightmarish day. “Without your help, you and Lestrade, it would have been a lot longer. But it felt like an age.”

Of course Sherlock knows what he and Lestrade were doing. Because that’s what he was doing too – and there’ve been rare occasions over the past six months that the two of them felt like one side of a pincer movement, but they never got to see the other side. Once, John tried to talk to Mycroft, to see whether by sharing resources they could all achieve their final goal sooner, but Mycroft, in his usual obfuscatory fashion, denied all knowledge of any operation related to the late James Moriarty. He then ended the conversation very politely by asking John, in a pained voice, to do what Sherlock would have wanted and live a safe and happy life.

“Might’ve been quicker if you’d bothered to let us know what was really going on and, y’know, _help_ you,” he can’t help pointing out now.

“Too dangerous,” Sherlock says, his tone clipped, though he’s still holding John tightly, fingers buried in John’s jumper. “I was under the impression that you’d worked that out.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “But since when have I ever been sensible when it comes to danger? I did invade Afghanistan, after all.”

Sherlock pulls back far enough to look at John, but doesn’t let go completely. His eyes widen, and then abruptly he starts to giggle, just as they had downstairs two years ago after that insane, brilliant run through the streets of London chasing a taxi. They’re both laughing then, so much they need to hold each other up, and Sherlock’s forehead dips to rest against his, hands sliding up to clutch his shoulders.

Ice-blue eyes, mere inches from his, meet his gaze, and in that split second all the oxygen in the room seems to have disappeared. John’s about to ask what, how, when his means of speaking is cut off entirely. Sherlock’s lips are on his, kissing him, and then nothing else matters because why would he want to do anything else but kiss Sherlock back?

He isn’t gay. He and Sherlock were never like that... but this feels like the most _right_ thing he’s done in years. And if it’s all the same to anyone else, he’s going to carry on doing it for as long as possible. More, too, if Sherlock wants it.

A warm tongue slides over his, and he just knows Sherlock is analysing every chemical he can taste and, most likely, debating the importance of pheromones versus sentiment in this no doubt – to him – inexplicable desire to kiss his flatmate. But then Sherlock breaks off the kiss, looks at him with a wild grin, and then cups his face between long, slim hands and kisses John again.

Sentiment. Definitely sentiment. And that’s definitely a bit good. More than good.

 

***

Greg Lestrade’s just thinking about going to bed when his mobile rings. It’s John.

He doesn’t bother to say hello. “Oi, you might not have to be at the surgery until tomorrow afternoon, mate, but I’m on shift at seven.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” There’s tension in John’s voice that wasn’t there when they left the pub an hour or so ago. “Look, can you come over? Now?”

“Something’s wrong.” He’s already walking around the flat picking up his keys and coat, his old copper’s gut telling him this is not good. “Do I need to bring back-up? Just say yes or no.”

“No, it’s fine.” The tension’s still in John’s voice, but it’s clearly not the kind that signals danger. Greg’s gut still isn’t ready to give up its state of alert, but he drops the plans for calling Control and getting a couple of squad cars sent to Baker Street. “Just get over here, if you can.”

“On my way.” He’s already halfway down the stairs. He’ll be lucky if he gets four hours’ sleep tonight, at this rate. This just better not be a false alarm.

The lights are on in the living-room of the flat when he pulls up outside. And the front door’s on the latch.

Cautiously, he lets himself in. Mrs Hudson’s away, he remembers John saying earlier; visiting her sister in Bournemouth for a few days. That’s something, at least. If there’s an intruder in the flat, it’s just him and John, and John’s more than capable of looking after himself. They won’t have to protect an elderly lady as well – even if Martha Hudson’s got more tricks up her sleeve than most people would think.

He climbs the stairs slowly, silently, keeping his body pressed to the wall and listening for voices. It’s all quiet. Too quiet.

The door to the flat’s ajar. He moves up to the gap and peers in.

John’s in the middle of the room, hands in his pocket, staring at something on the mantelpiece. “What’re you hanging around out there for, Greg? Come on in!”

So much for being stealthy. And worried, too – there’s nothing at all in John’s voice or stance to suggest trouble. He sighs and pushes the door open, and walks into the room.

“About time, too,” a voice comes from the kitchen. He turns. And there’s Sherlock, large as life and twice as egotistical. Christ, he should have known, shouldn’t he?

“You know, I should arrest you for wasting police time,” he quips dryly, walking towards the younger man.

“Didn’t get you very far last time.” The smirk on Sherlock’s face would usually irritate the hell out of him, except that he’s just spent a long time thinking he’d never get to see it again.

“I’m glad you’re back. Missed you, though I’ll deny I said it if you repeat it to anyone from the Yard.” He extends a hand, but Sherlock ignores it.

“I take John as my guide in matters of social intercourse,” Sherlock comments, an impish and definitely untrustworthy smile hovering around his lips. A moment later, Greg finds himself with an armful of consulting detective.

So they hug now, then. Not something he’d ever have expected from Sherlock, but he’s okay with it.

The fact that John looks more amused than shocked tells Greg that the doctor has survived a couple of hugs from Sherlock himself. So the so-called sociopathic Sherlock Holmes isn’t as emotionless as he pretends, after all. No bad thing, that.

A few moments later, catching a fond look and a brush of hands between John and Sherlock, Greg smothers a grin. Definitely not as emotionless as he used to pretend, is Sherlock. And clearly John’s not as straight as he pretends. He reckons John’ll owe him a pint or three to make up for all those denials.

It’s a little bit later, then, and Sherlock’s talking, telling them both how clever he was in planning his apparent death – with Molly’s help, as they guessed – and Greg’s decided that he’ll just have to be half-asleep on shift tomorrow because he’s got more questions he wants answered and he isn’t willing to wait.

“So, were we right, then?” he interrupts as Sherlock’s gone on to describe slipping out the back entrance of the morgue and into a car helpfully provided by Mycroft. “Moriarty was threatening people’s lives? John? Mrs Hudson?”

“And you,” Sherlock says, his tone grave, gaze equally serious resting on him. “Three snipers, three victims. If I didn’t jump, all three of you would die. That was the threat. Of course, I knew it would be something like that. Obvious. Moriarty had seen me react previously when John was in danger, and he would have had Irene’s report as well. He probably also knew about that time with Mrs Hudson. No use threatening me, so it was obvious that he’d go for what he’d see as my one weakness. My friends.”

Him? That doesn’t make sense. Why would Moriarty have included him, the copper Sherlock just about tolerated most of the time and who’d had him arrested hours earlier? But there’s that hug, and his guess months ago that Sherlock waited until after he’d got to Baker Street to make a run for it, in order to protect him...

Well. Looks like Sherlock does think of him as a bit more than his convenient, barely tolerated copper, after all. He shouldn’t feel so warm inside at the thought, and yet he does.

“If you knew he’d go after us, why didn’t you get Mycroft to help?” John asks, his voice not entirely steady. Right. If all of this – Sherlock’s apparent death, the funeral, all the grief – could have been avoided, then why not?

“I couldn’t be sure that’s what he’d do – and even if I’d been right, he would just have regrouped and come back with something else. He had to be stopped permanently, and even after he killed himself his entire operation had to be stopped. It was the only way, John.”

John nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells Greg it’s not the last that Sherlock’s heard on the subject.

Greg yawns suddenly. “Shit. I really should get home to bed. I’m gonna need to interview you, you know, Sherlock. Officially, I mean.”

“Once I’m officially alive again, naturally.” Sherlock smirks. “Though it might just be sufficiently amusing to stroll into the Yard tomorrow and see if I make anyone faint. Anderson, don’t you think, John? Like a little girl?”

Greg shrugs. He’s certainly not going to stop Sherlock from enjoying a bit of revenge here and there. What he will make sure, though, is that certain people at various levels of the Yard extend official apologies. They excoriated Sherlock publicly behind his back and to his face, and then quietly acknowledged, in hush-hush whispers when they thought he was dead, that they’d all been wrong about him. They can damn well make up for that.

“Well, I’m looking forward to it being official.” John stands and stretches, then glances at Greg and winks. “Got the title of my blog entry all ready.”

Sherlock clearly wants to appear completely uninterested, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Oh?”

John grins. “The Miraculous Reassembly of Humpty Dumpty.”

The appalled look on Sherlock’s face as Greg lets himself out is something he’ll remember and enjoy for a very long time to come.

 

**\- end**


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